


Back to Black

by dearxalchemist



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, Mostly Gallya but there is some OT3, OT3 Mentions, Post Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 06:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7498425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearxalchemist/pseuds/dearxalchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She hits the ground, knees  splitting open on the cobblestone road, her throat is dry. No sound escapes her, just a rush of soft air. It leaves her lungs, makes her chest feel like it's caving in. Her assailant is shouting something in his native tongue, harsh letters rubbing together. He's KGB, Gaby can cherry pick through his words, same ones Illya has been impatiently attempting  to teach her for months. None of it makes sense now though, everything is a garbled mess and sounds are fading in and out. She hits the road. Cheek pressing hard onto the hot cobblestones, Gaby exhales a sharp cry. Illya's boots come into her vision and she hears her name on his tongue and then there's more gunfire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back to Black

Carelessness has brought this on her. The sound of the gun, the burning sensation across her skin, all of it is from carelessness. She revels in it, mind blanking as Illya's voice hits her. The metal shell hits the ground, it's such a small sound that echoes in her ears as dots explode behind her eyes. Pure, unfiltered pain radiates across her nerves and drags her down. She hits the ground, knees splitting open on the cobblestone road, her throat is dry. No sound escapes her, just a rush of soft air. It leaves her lungs, makes her chest feel like it's caving in. Her assailant is shouting something in his native tongue, harsh letters rubbing together. He's KGB, Gaby can cherry pick through his words, same ones Illya has been impatiently attempting to teach her for months. None of it makes sense now though, everything is a garbled mess and sounds are fading in and out. She hits the road. Cheek pressing hard onto the hot cobblestones, Gaby exhales a sharp cry. Illya's boots come into her vision and she hears her name on his tongue and then there's more gunfire. Everything fades, bleeds away to darkness. She can feel it wrapping it's thick fingers around her, dragging her to drown in the blackness. 

Solo shoots first. He misses. The agent from Russia shoots back and hits their little mechanic in the top of her thigh, shredding through the muscle of the ex-dancer's legs. She stumbles and falls like a work of beautiful art being ripped away from a museum wall, Napoleon would know. He's stolen enough of it, but this is just cruel. 

He shoots again and he doesn't know if it's his bullet or Peril's that rips through the man's throat, either way it's a spray of red and collapse of an empire. Silence rings out, Illya smashes through it though. His voice is shaking either with anger or terror, Solo can't quite put his finger on it. He's slipped into Russian, Gaby's name mixed into his pleading. He pleads aloud to anyone or anything willing to listen as he loses his stance and hits the road with both knees. His hands are pulling at her, dragging her up into him. He wastes no time gathering her up. Her pale pink and white layers are drenched in red. She looks like a doll, broken limb and all, so small against Illya's body. 

Illya shouts at him and the illusion is over. Gaby is bleeding, there's a dead man a few feet from them, and a hospital a few miles away. They steal the rogue agent's car, toss his intelligence files in the back of the car and Solo drives while Illya prays. He prays so much that Napoleon feels the urge to make the sign of the cross and plead what's left of his soul to end this nightmare. They make it to the hospital in record time, the car running hot with a burning clutch. Gaby is a much better driver than he could ever hope to be. They leave the car in the street. Uncaring if it gets towed away and Illya carries Gaby inside, shouting, all while Solo lingers back. He sits in the car for a moment longer and reaches for the files tossed in the back. 

He inspects the rest of the car, takes the spare gun out of the glove box and leaves the keys in the ignition for a lucky passerby. 

Hospitals are places where people die. Everything smells like disinfectant and the faint lingering scent that can only be defined as death. Illya doesn't want to leave her, they take her anyways, threatening to throw the giant out if he puts up a fight. He deflates and let's them roll her away. Her eyes are rolled back and her fingers clamp down on his hand but he makes himself let go of her. He makes himself take a shuddering breath and sits in the chair facing the hallway. 

Illya's blond hair is soaked with sweat, his cheeks are flushed with what Napoleon suspects is rage and his fingers are doing their endless tap dance. He folds the files under his arm and leans against the wall casually, attempting to look like he's holding himself together well. The truth is he isn't. The truth is his nerves are unwinding and tangling back together, tightening around his heart, around his lungs. He can't breath deep enough, but somehow manages to put his mask on for the pretty nurses sitting behind the tempered glass. 

"We can not stay here." Illya speaks slow and low. He drags his hands up and runs them over his face, scratching at the shadow of a beard. 

"No doubt he wasn't alone. Or better yet, he probably got word back to your motherland." Solo's sarcasm cuts deep. He wants Illya to know that Russia does not love Gaby like they do. Deep down this stokes the fire in his American belly, filling him with the anticipation of war, with the idea that Peril will finally take the plunge and leave the Union behind for a chance at something more with them, with Gaby. He has to excuse himself out of their equation, because while he doesn’t mind dipping his fingers into married pies, the love they hold for him is different than the love they feel for one another. Their love for him is unconditional, the one they have is unyielding. The KGB has to know that now. They have to know how hours ago Illya was between those legs, giving up his love of Mother Russia in exchange for the love of a warm blooded German spy. 

That they know he's defecting. That U.N.C.L.E. is making their loyal dog fat and happy on international leniency. Illya's knuckles turn bloodless as his fingers form a shaking fist. Napoleon doesn't flinch, he stands there with his stoic mask on. Blue eyes are set dead ahead on the white double doors at the end of the hallway where Gaby is no doubt being treated roughly, fingers pulling that dress of hers apart to dig out a bullet. Her left leg will never be the same. Even if she lives, Solo is sad to think her dancing days are over. The memories of her hours ago are replaying in his head. Her new dress floating around her legs as she swallowed back a loaded drink and danced around the sitting room. She had a lazy form that Solo knew was a front. He has seen her run, he had seen her dance on a mission before, she was far more talented than she ever let on. Waverly trained her long before they had come along. 

She has been on the British side for two years before he had ever wandered into that little garage. He frowned for a moment and licked over his bottom lip in an unconscious effort to remember how she tasted when she kissed him weeks ago. Fed up with waiting, impatient and drunk she had tugged on his designer tie. Their lips met and Illya choked back a death threat in the American's direction. The kiss had been to prove a point. It didn't matter then but now, he made a silent promise. If Gaby came out, he'd kiss her again. Peril be damned he would kiss her the way ladies were meant to be kissed.

“One of us needs to make the call.” Illya finally speaks against his scratching fingers, hands moving through his hair, making it even more of a mess. Solo nods even though he knows Illya can’t see it and shifts the files under his arm. After a moment or two, he blows out a sigh and pushes away from the wall that’s holding him upwards and stopping his knees from shaking like a little school boy’s. 

“I’ll do it, Waverly loves the sound of my voice.” He tries to hold his normal uncaring tone, but Illya knows better. Solo is falling apart on the inside, just as he is. Illya can only nod. He doesn’t trust his mouth to form the right words. He doesn’t trust himself not to call Oleg and rage war. He can only think of Gaby and the warm blood seeping into his expensive three piece, of the way her fingers clamped onto his hand, and her soft squeaky breathing as she struggled to find a scream. He’s proud of her strength, proud of the way she held herself up until she collapsed like a puppet losing her strings. 

His chest tightens and he closes his eyes. This is weakness. This is everything the KGB beat out of him. This is everything Oleg warned him about, the dangers of working with a woman, the temptation of working with the carefree Americans. He shakes, his muscles are stretched and strained. Anger explodes across his whole body but somehow he contains it all. Gaby would not approve of him destroying a waiting room. She wouldn’t let him take his anger out in a place of peace where the doctors attempt to work modern magic. He can feel her hands on his now, holding his fists down against his knees. Sucking in a sharp breath, the Russian man holds tight and then exhales slowly, red bleeding away from his vision. 

They had been so careless. Running freely through the streets of Barcelona, finished with their mission and spending their last hours there in luxury. They had dropped their paranoia for a run through the shopping district, where Illya dressed Gaby in something angelic and Solo ruined the image by pushing the dress up in a closed off alleyway, leaving bruises on her hips with his own while Illya blocked them in with his hands braced over their heads and Gaby’s mouth on his. She never shouted Solo’s name, just his. It drove Napoleon insane. It forced him to try harder, she never gave him the satisfaction of a compliment like his numerous conquests did. 

She never stroked his American ego, only let him take care of hers and Illya’s. Even so they had been careless, guards had been dropped and the enemy got to their secrets. Their weakness was now in the hands of his handler, there was only one thing to do now. Going back wasn’t an option anymore, not that he ever thought it would be, but now the line drawn between the agencies was clear. He could only hold out the shred of hope that U.N.C.L.E. would keep them and if not, then he was already built to handle the shame. They had raised him on shame, forced him to always remember the sins of his father, but now Illya had his own. He could handle that as long as he had Gaby in the end. He would take on the world if she asked, end empires and destroy dynasties all at her request. 

Gaby could make him do unspeakable things, but somehow, deep down he knew she never would. 

No doubt their running around had attracted attention, attracted the right tail to tag along and report back to the Iron Curtain. His fingers flex, unfolding from their tight fist and then as quickly as he lets go he tenses again. His hands do this over and over, resisting the urge to tap. He holds his breath for five counts at a time, evening himself out. It’s no use. He is scared. He is downright frightened of losing the little mechanic in the middle of the night. Solo’s shoes squeak to a stop just outside his vision and Illya drags his head up, looking up to the American. Solo looks exhausted, pale and out of place in an expensive suit. His lips are pressed together thin and tight and Illya nods to him as if granting him permission to speak.

“Our dear friends on the extraction team will be here within the hour. Waverly is having a helicopter charted for your fiance.” He glanced around as he spoke, classic spy paranoia bleeding back into his persona. They should have never stopped looking over their shoulders. One slip up was all it took, one slip and a single gunshot. He exhaled, "They’ll move Gaby as soon as it’s safe. We’re to go ahead without her.”

“No,” Illya breathes out the word like it’s his final say on how things really go down in their world. His shoulders are squared and he clenches his jaw, “I will not leave her.” 

“We need to look for any other agents.” Solo is serious, his voice tight and his tired look is melting away into something that looks like frustration etched into his pretty face. He steps forward a bit as if his height can force Illya to yield to him. 

“We need to stay with her.” He huffs out his nose, “I need to stay with her.”

Napoleon closes his eyes briefly. 

Illya stays. Solo goes. 

There are no more agents, the files are on the three of them together, photos pinned to each one. Each of their photos are blurry, taken from far away and developed poorly. Each photo has notes written along the back of them. Solo burns them in the dead KGB Agent’s rented apartment. He sets the apartment ablaze to destroy all evidence of the trio. He can only hope he never reported back to his handler, his notes on the three of them around the city are written in a sloppy handwriting are spread out on the floor. Solo burns those too and leaves nothing to chance, using the blurry photos as kindling.  
Waverly and his team arrive.

They leave nothing behind. 

Gaby is stable enough to be transferred. She’s lost a lot of blood, but will recover. Her leg will never be the same. Illya has the pieces of the bullet they fished out of her thigh in a small plastic container. He rattles it around in his palm to keep himself grounded as Solo gives a verbal report of the mission. They finished early, they had a dinner, they were confronted by the KGB and attacked first. It’s not entirely a lie, but it’s definitely not the whole truth, but Solo spins it so well. He layers up just the right amount of details and then lays the dramatic on thick. Waverly’s attachment to his own Agent is enough to keep them out of trouble for now, he’s too worried for Gaby to demand more details. 

It’s a small victory when Oleg calls and reveals that Kuryakin is dead to the cause, dead to the Union. He is a dog not worth putting down to them, his mother died months ago, leaving him alone in the world. Only not truly alone, because Solo has not left his side since the helicopter ride to one of several headquarters.

Gaby wakes up after thirty hours of medicine induced sleep. Her mouth is dry and cotton like. U.N.C.L.E.’s finest have taken care of her. She asks for Solo first. Illya’s heart breaks, but Gaby puts it back together with a kiss to the line of his knuckles. He doesn’t tell her the news. He waits for her to heal. She heals slowly, leg barely extending with each day.

Two days pass. She refuses medicine, argues with nurses. She refuses to sleep. Solo leaves for London, Illya does not leave Gaby’s side. He barely leaves the room at all, he plays chess and reads, but Gaby never sees the pieces on the board move and never sees him turn a page. 

Another day passes and she can move a little better, Solo phones and wishes her well. Illya leaves the room so she can whisper about him to their American partner. Gaby enjoys the small attention a little too much, it brightens her spirits just enough to fuel her determination. She attempts to walk on her own because she is hard-headed and determined to take a shower. 

She falls, Illya catches. 

Frustration makes tears prick at the corners of her eyes. Her hands ball up into fists and she lashes out on the ex-KGB agent. She thumps her knuckles against his chest, listens to the hollow echo that sounds. A dry heave leaves her lips and she falls into his chest, ear pressed against his sternum. His heartbeat lulls her in, makes her close her eyes as she settles back into the warmth of him. Her lashes are wet and her lips are pursed, frustration radiates from her but Illya smooths it away. His lips are cool against her forehead. His fingers brush away her wild bangs, tangle up in the snarls of her bedhead. After a moment on the tile floor, he lifts her and leads her to the private bath. 

Illya takes what feels like days to remove the hospital gown. He sets her on the edge of the curved counter top, brushes back her bangs again, makes her look up at him. Her eyes are dark and endless, lined with darker circles. The medicine makes her irritable and Gaby fights sleep already, he worries the insomnia will slow her healing process, but Gaby is resilient. His calloused fingers draw along the curve of her throat, pushing her hair aside. He finds the ties on the thin gown and slowly starts pulling the laces free. Bit by bit he unties her, frees her from the thin confines of the dress. His fingers stroke down the trail of her spine, palm forming over her slender side. He holds her close to him, her knees pressing into his abdomen. His palm smooths upwards, tracing the curve of her, cutting around her back where he maps out every bit of exposed skin he can. His fingers stroke down and she shivers. Her skin pricks, he’s flint and she’s stone. He’s striking embers with every stroke of his fingers, drawing out a slow and savory burn across her nerves. Gaby wants to burn in the inferno they create together. 

He eventually pulls the gown away, lets it fall to the tiled floor. His hand slides up her un-bandaged thigh and holds her there. The counter is cold under her legs, but she ignores it was she sinks further into Illya’s attention. He drags the edge of her underwear down, careful of her bandaged thigh. He takes great care in lifting her, sliding the thin fabric down her legs and tossing it to the floor. He doesn’t set her back on the cool counter top. Instead he holds her to him, her damaged leg pressing into his gently. He searches her face for discomfort, but Gaby is content, laying her cheek on his chest. 

Gaby breaks the silence, “Don’t leave me.” She breathes out the words so carefully, “I don’t want to be alone. I see him when I close my eyes.” 

Her voice shakes.

His grip tightens. 

She winces and he falls apart, loosening his grip on her and softly apologizing with a kiss to the crown of her messy head. Despite nurses orders, he helps her bathe. Illya strips down to nothing and sinks in the tub with her. He keeps her bandaged leg out of the water, taking extra care to hold her leg so she doesn’t have to strain. Bit by bit, he draws a cloth across her skin. He takes his time with an agonizing pace, ensuring she is comfortable in the hot water. The water is a soft grey color by the time he’s finished with her. He washes away the asphalt from her fall and the sweat and grime from her stay in the hospital. He takes great care in keeping her leg dry, then even more as he takes a towel to her wet flesh. 

Illya’s fingers de-tangle her snarled hair. She chats idly of missing the rumble of a car, of missing Solo. Illya frowns and she leans back, kissing the edge of his jawline. Her lips are soft and warm against the stubble of his jaw smiling as she speaks, "But I would rather have you than Solo." 

Her words make him smile, it's small but Gaby loves it. He pulls her freshly washed hair back in a low ponytail for her, dresses her carefully in a clean gown. He goes to lift her again and Gaby stops him with a palm on his bare chest. His pants hang low on his hips, his chest is still damp from their bath and she marvels in the feel of him under her palm as she stops him from lifting her. Illya is solid muscle, steel rests under his skin, Gaby is certain of it. 

“I will take you back to bed.” He informs her carefully and moves again but Gaby drums her fingers across his chest, shaking her dark head to him.

“I need to do this myself.” She nods and he hesitates. She says his name low, her soft accent is music to his ears. 

A moment of silence ticks by them and he settles on letting her have her way. Her hand grips onto forearm and she moves. It is slow. Her pace is slow and shaky, clumsy even. She shifts all her weight on to her good leg and uses Illya as she steps on to her bad. The pain is still strong, her face contorts into a grimace but she never shouts. She never hisses out any of her discomfort. She soldiers on and Illya is filled with pride. His woman is strong. Eventually she gives in and leans on him a bit more and asks silently for him to lift her back onto the private bed. However, she doesn’t let him let go. Gaby’s not ready to let go, not yet.

Instead she wraps her fingers around his wrist and holds tightly, fingers tracing the tan line where his father’s watch usually sits. 

“Gaby,” He breathes out her name slowly, “I will not fit.” 

A smile pulls at her lips, “Try?” She asks softly and pulls once more like an impatient child on Christmas morning. 

He gives in.

She sleeps. 

Illya stretches out as much as the little bed allows him to. There is very little room, but he endures it for Gaby. His thoughts are a jumbled mess, he can not go home, but there is no where else. He will have to face Waverly soon. All of U.N.C.L.E. as well to decide his fate, he’s no longer welcome home. Gaby sighs into the crook of his neck and his earlier thought vanishes as her fingers curl into his bare chest. Gaby is warm and soft, he decides then and there that this is it. This is home, she is home.

**Author's Note:**

> I could not resist throwing in some OT3 stuff. Sorry guys, I wasn't sure how to end this, this originally started off as a "lets kill someone off" prompt but I don't think I could ever kill off any of these babies. I'm getting to all my prompts in my inbox but feel free to drop off more @tulipsohhare ! You guys are amazing and thank you so much for all the feedback!


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